The atmosphere has changed. It is neither heavy nor light, neither joyous nor sorrowful, most days. The sun's light has trouble piercing through the clouds. Even today I cannot see it, but the air is brighter. I can feel the sun beyond the chilled horizon. The south winds blow bitter and coldly, but there is solace in the light. The concrete city, painted white by ash, gleams with an unfamiliar warmness - a warmness that was, perhaps, familiar once; the fires blazing in the midst of a slow and peaceful winter. The coldness itself is what is warm, for the memories of warmness that it brings. The atmosphere has changed. There is warmth found in
The Field of the Mind by shoulder-bird, literature
Literature
The Field of the Mind
Beyond the halcyon sunset
Lies a vibrant, floral heath,
I often go and sit to rest there,
In its timeless, drowsy sheath,
For the air lends me to musing,
And the sounds goad me to write,
For I am always quite alone there,
Save the birds that twirl and song there,
For I have other kinds of friends there,
In that haven out of sight.
There are colours that resound,
Blues and Reds that sound like Violets,
A sheet of tulips that like sirens
Sing with voices wrought of dreams;
Airborne sheets of vibrant yellows,
From the songbird's whistle spun,
From the wind's breath on the lilies,
From the prelude of the sun,
From the vernal sce
The Winters' Cafe: Edge by shoulder-bird, literature
Literature
The Winters' Cafe: Edge
There was a time, you see, when the gun and the bullet were considered the weapons of cowards and thieves. A blackhearted sort of weapon, they'd say, with some degree of truth to back them. The gun has a particular sort of ease to its operation, the bullet has a range able to best the swiftest and truest arrow and the wound it leaves is rarely a trifling one. To the untrained, it all seems too easy.
Point, click.
The bullet leaves the chamber and subsequently leaves its deadly signature on the victim's heart. To those watching on from the sidelines, there's a sharp crack and a thud as the body hits the floor. It's all over in an instant. Wh
Kiya Holmes: For CC123. by shoulder-bird, literature
Literature
Kiya Holmes: For CC123.
The standard order of things was, I noticed, rarely the best way to get things done. A bumbling squad of ill-trained 'officials', doing some ridiculous dance around the crime scene, tipping and disrupting all evidence, causing all sorts of havoc, removing all chance of ever finding a satisfactory verdict. Conjecture would be tossed to and fro, attention paid to the most irrelevant details, and eventually the inspector would stand up from whatever seat he had fallen asleep in and yell;
"I have found the murderer! It was clearly the butler, for he was in the room with the victim and his clothes are stained with his blood! Besides the victim, h